It wasn't love.
I don't care what he said. It wasn't.
Because love doesn't make you question your worth at midnight when the room is quiet and you're replaying a conversation you didn't even start. Love doesn't make you feel like you owe someone softness just to keep them from shifting cold.
Kahlil had a way of flipping the script.
He would do something hurtful, ignore a message for hours, dismiss something I cared about, and then act like my reaction was the problem. "You're always so sensitive, Ariah," he'd say, as if that was a flaw. As if the only acceptable version of me was the one that smiled, nodded, and moved on.
One evening, he called just to vent about his day. I listened, gently offered suggestions, and when I finally mentioned something I had been working on, he cut me off.
"That's cute," he said flatly. "But right now I just need peace, not more talk."
I froze. The conversation ended shortly after. I sat there, phone in hand, wondering how I'd become the distraction. How my voice became noise. I had always been careful with his emotions, why wasn't mine given the same care?
Yet the worst part wasn't what he said. It was how easily I forgave it. How I convinced myself it was a bad day. That maybe I should've read the room better. Maybe I should've let him rest.
But why was I always the one adjusting?
Why did I keep shrinking so his moods could breathe?
The thing about emotional erosion is, it's quiet. It doesn't arrive screaming. It happens in the small allowances. The skipped apologies. The subtle guilt. And before you know it, you're second-guessing your instincts and calling it "understanding."
I kept telling myself he was healing, too.
That maybe his sharpness came from wounds I couldn't see. But that's the thing—healing doesn't give anyone permission to hurt you. Especially not consistently.
It wasn't love.
It was control wrapped in charm.
Affection tied to performance.
And still… I stayed.
Because even fake warmth feels warm when you're cold.